


standing on the overpass

by teaspoon



Series: i wanna get better [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Statutory Rape, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 00:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10058492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaspoon/pseuds/teaspoon
Summary: The way they’re walking, Jughead can feel the heat radiating off Archie’s body, shoulders not quite touching, elbows not quite rubbing together. Neither of them speak for a long time, Jughead’s sharp tongue curled against the roof of his mouth. The real reason he didn’t want Archie to hug him in public is because he didn’t think he could hold all the pieces of himself together if he was folded against Archie’s chest. Because it would have been too soft, too comforting. Because he wanted it too much.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story runs parallel to canon through the first five episodes. It deals with the immediate aftermath of Ms. Grundy's departure without going into great detail. It also portrays Jughead as potentially asexual, but I haven't tagged it as asexual Jughead because the depiction of his sexuality is neither fixed nor unambiguous.

It’s easy to fall into step with Archie on the way from the school to Pop’s, as if their strides syncing together is locked in their muscle memory so deep that it doesn’t matter how long it’s been or how Archie’s body has changed. A few inches of height, broadened shoulders, sculpted muscles that draw attention from, well, everyone. Jughead can’t help but think about the way Archie looks now, overlaying the way Jughead remembers him: the same half-shy smile, the same unrestrained laugh, the scar between his eyebrows from the time Archie crashed his bike into a streetlight two doors down from Jughead’s house. Former house.

Archie still smells the same underneath the fresh tang of soap from his post-game shower, the lingering sharpness of sweat, and the stick deodorant he’s been using since they were twelve. The way they’re walking, Jughead can feel the heat radiating off Archie’s body, shoulders not quite touching, elbows not quite rubbing together. Neither of them speak for a long time, Jughead’s sharp tongue curled against the roof of his mouth. The real reason he didn’t want Archie to hug him in public is because he didn’t think he could hold all the pieces of himself together if he was folded against Archie’s chest. Because it would have been too soft, too comforting. Because he wanted it too much.

“It’s starting to cool down,” Archie offers. “Summer’s really over, I mean.”

As overtures go, it’s pretty lame, but Jughead isn’t above taking the easy route sometimes, when it’s Archie, so he cracks a small grin and replies, “Yeah, the relentless forward march of time and all that. Seasons change, kids get older…” He doesn’t say, _people drift apart_ , but he thinks it.

He’s not looking where he’s going, his gaze cutting past Archie and onto the busy part of the road beyond the pedestrian walkway they’re on. They hit the strip mall across the parking lot from Pop’s, most of the stores shuttered for the evening except the liquor store and the all-night coin laundromat. A blast of hot, dryer sheet-scented air blows across their path as they pass, and somehow it reminds Jughead of being a kid. Of both of their moms, maybe, or of building pillow forts out of freshly-laundered sheets.

“Arch,” he says, suddenly, when they’re at the edge of the parking lot where one of the lights has gone out, the darkness creating the illusion of privacy.

Archie turns to him, eyebrows raised and face open, giving Jughead his attention as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. It makes Jughead’s chest feel tight, and he can see the exact moment that Archie sees through the carefully constructed outer layers Jughead has been building since the summer, since before that, probably.

It’s not a surprise when Archie puts his arms around Jughead; it’s a quiet reprieve from the rest of the world that keeps battering at Jughead’s defenses, wearing him down. His own arms don’t fit around Archie’s waist in quite the same way, but Jughead’s chin still fits neatly over Archie’s shoulder and he lets out a funny-sounding half sigh. No one’s really touched him in months, not like this. His whole body feels like a bruise but he doesn’t fly apart at the seams like he thought he might. He holds it together, or he lets Archie hold him together, for a few long moments before they pull apart by some mutual, unspoken agreement.

“You’re a sap, Archie Andrews.” He adjusts his beanie and forces his mouth into a lopsided smile.

“Yeah, yeah,” Archie says, unconcerned, and they walk up to the brightly-lit haven of Pop’s with matching strides, their arms just barely brushing against each other.

***

After the Twilight closes, Jughead sneaks into the school after hours and puts half his stuff in an unused locker with a busted latch that needs to be jimmied opened with a bent paperclip. Lightening the load makes his backpack less conspicuous. He thinks about where he’s going to sleep that night, and allows himself the brief fantasy of showing up on Archie’s front steps. He’s not sure what would happen, in reality, if he did. Things are better between them now but they’re not best friends anymore; Archie said as much when he called Betty his best friend instead, and Jughead knows he needs to let that go but it’s a bruise he likes to poke when he’s feeling particularly tortured and self-indulgent.

In the end, he walks around for a long time and ends up at the train station on the Southside. He takes a nap in a chair in the corner of the waiting area, hugging his backpack to his chest. He wakes up an hour before the first commuter train into the city and trudges, bleary-eyed, back to school.

The swim team has a morning practice today, so he can’t take a shower without risking notice, but he washes up at the sinks in the boys’ bathroom, brushes his teeth, and changes his shirt and jacket. His reflection looks pale under the sickly fluorescent strip lighting, dark shadows etched deeply under his eyes, but between the Jason Blossom murder mystery and the whole don’t-stand-so-close-to-me mess between Archie and Ms. Grundy, Jughead’s pretty sure no one’s going to notice that he looks a little underslept.

Later, he feels bad about feeling sorry for himself when he finds out that all hell broke loose last night: Betty and Alice Cooper and Fred bursting in on Archie and Grundy right here at school while everyone else was at the drive-in, just hours before Jughead stopped by to stash his stuff.

He stops by Archie’s house, not for a place to stay but to offer up his personal brand of prickly, inadequate comfort. Fred gets the door, Vegas at his heels, and for a moment it all feels so achingly familiar, as if it were still June and Jughead were here to bug Archie after his shift at the construction site, to talk about the plans for their upcoming road trip, to lie top to toe in Archie’s bed and try not to think about how he wanted to kiss Archie like he’d never wanted to kiss anyone else, not ever.

Fred lets him in like it’s normal, too, but Jughead’s heart thumps on every stair on the way up to Archie’s room, and he stands outside his closed door for what feels like a long time, listening for signs of life and working up the courage to knock.

Finally, he hears Archie’s voice, low and rusty-sounding. “Stop standing there like a creep and come in.”

Jughead pushes the door open and starts to say something about not being the resident creep around here, thinks better of it and shuts his mouth. Grundy’s gone, anyway, and good riddance, but if he still knows Archie at all, he knows that Archie’s not ready to put the blame where it belongs, on an adult who knew better and didn’t care, who took advantage of Archie’s heart of gold and his teenage libido. Calling Grundy names, however true or well-deserved, won’t make Archie feel better. Maybe nothing will, except time and space. Jughead can give him the former but he’s not willing to cede the latter.

Archie’s sprawled on the bed like someone dropped him there, one arm over his head and the other on his stomach, one foot dangling off the edge of the mattress. His eyes track Jughead’s walk towards him, curious but unmoved.

“You should be used to my creepy tendencies by now,” Jughead says.

He doesn’t wait for Archie to shift, just toes off his shoes and climbs over his prone body. He sits down in the space between Archie’s hip and the wall, draping his legs over Archie’s knees. He hasn’t sat like this since before the summer, too aware of their proximity, cautious of lingering touches that might betray his feelings. The way he felt about Archie, the way he still feels, isn’t the same as how Archie feels about girls but it’s the most Jughead knows how to feel about anyone – not the uncomplicated love he feels for his sister but something else.

Archie has his face turned away from Jughead towards the door, and Jughead wants to take hold of him by the chin, wants to gently cup the sharp lines of his jaw in his palms, to see if Archie’s stubble feels adult-coarse now where it used to be peach fuzz soft. He takes off his beanie and winds the knitted fabric between his hands instead, feels like he’s taking his armor off.

“I didn’t know what Betty and her mom were going to do,” he says, finally. “If I had, I’d…” Archie had asked him, pleaded with him to give him some kind of warning. “I don’t know what I would have done but I’m sorry, anyway.”

He presses his heel against the side of Archie’s thigh, the bulky muscle solid under Jughead’s ankle bone. It makes him feel oddly protective: even though Archie’s so much bigger and stronger than Jughead is now, he takes to hurt so easily because he expects better from the world, from people. Jughead expects nothing and he’s still disappointed most of the time. He can’t imagine what it’s like, leaving your soft underbelly exposed the way Archie does.

“It’s not _your_ fault. I was stupid.” Archie swallows hard, flinging his arm over his eyes. He’s not crying but he’s cracked open like an eggshell.

Jughead twists and settles onto his side next to Archie, grips his fingers around the bend of Archie’s elbow, looser than he really wants, just reminding him that he’s here. He doesn’t tell Archie he’s not stupid, doesn’t try to tell him it’s all going to be okay. He presses his cheek against Archie’s shoulder instead, holding onto his arm and listening to him breathe.

Archie finally rolls over to face Jughead, the two of them sharing a pillow like they’re kids again, whispering secrets after Archie’s mom has called lights out for bedtime. Archie’s all out of secrets and Jughead isn’t ready to spill his, so they just share the same humid air between their faces and don’t say a thing.

Jughead counts Archie’s eyelashes, the freckles on the bridge of his nose. Archie’s eyes are half-lidded. “You could stay,” he mumbles. “Dad won’t mind, if it’s you.”

Jughead wants, more than anything, to spend the night, to stay curled up with Archie, to make a home for himself inside Archie’s chest. He can’t have the last thing so he won’t let himself have any of it. Once Archie falls asleep, the sun barely set in the sky, Jughead puts his beanie back on. He creeps out of bed and down the stairs, walks out of the house and into the night like a ghost.

***

Every day, there’s a new distraction, a new development in the Jason Blossom case, a new outlandish twist in their once ordinary lives. Jughead hasn’t been alone with Archie since the night he left him sleeping. He hasn’t laid down in a real bed since then either.

Tonight, it’s raining like there’s no tomorrow, and he’s caved and rented a motel room under the name Miles Archer. He smirks at the private joke while the myopic, disinterested old man behind the desk pushes the keys across and warns him against smoking in the room.

The bed is rickety and musty-smelling, like everything else in the joint, and when he strips off the suspect maroon floral coverlet, he finds one of those scratchy acrylic blankets that offers neither warmth nor comfort. Still, it’s better than the train station or a park bench, better than breaking into school and praying not to get caught by someone else also breaking into the building, since there’s been a lot of that going around.

He sits and sets his laptop down beside him, thinking about the next chapter of his book, about working on the _Blue and Gold_ with Betty and now Kevin. He remembers the way Jason and Cheryl’s Nana Rose emerged from the shadows and casts a quick glance at the corner of the room furthest from the windows.

The knock on the door startles him into a full body flail, his feet coming off the ground and his arms curled protectively against his chest. He’s expecting the desk clerk, but he would have been less surprised by a femme fatale with a sob story, or even by his father. He’s not expecting Archie, soaked to the skin, red hair plastered against his forehead.

“What –” Jughead starts to say.

“What are you doing here?” Archie barrels over his words, dripping in the threshold because Jughead doesn’t move aside for him to come in. “Why are you… Kevin told me he didn’t think you had a place to stay.” Archie’s voice is tight and so is his expression, angry and a little plaintive.

“Does Kevin’s dad, does the sheriff know I’m…”

“No, it’s... I told Kevin I wanted to talk to you about it first.”

“Did you _follow_ me here?” Jughead hears the indignation rising in his voice now that the surprise has worn off.

Archie looks down at his feet, sheepish, his anger already dissipated, and Jughead remembers that Archie’s half drowned, that it’s late September and no longer warm at night.

“Take off your shoes and hoodie,” he orders, in lieu of actually inviting Archie in.

He closes the door behind him and stalks off to the bathroom, bringing back a threadbare, greyish-white bath towel.

“Thanks.” Archie starts drying himself off, face and arms and hair, and his white t-shirt is damp in patches, where the rain got through his sweatshirt. It sticks to his body and Jughead tries not to notice, not to let his gaze linger in fascination. He doesn’t know what he wants when he looks at Archie. He’s not sure if it’s about sex, not in the way Archie and the rest of the football team think about sex with girls – with women – but it is desire. He can admit that much to himself.

“What’s going on, Jug?” Archie’s voice is soft and careful, the way he never is with Jughead. They’ve been a lot of things with each other, but never careful.

“I had a fight with my dad,” he says. It’s a tiny fraction of the truth. “We’re working some stuff out.” That part’s a bald-faced lie, and Jughead’s proud that his voice doesn’t waver at all.

“I’m not buying it.” Archie’s still got one towel-covered hand scrubbing at his hair, but his eyes are fixed on Jughead as if he can see right through to the dark heart of him. It makes Jughead shiver like he’s the one covered in cold water. “Please, tell me what’s going on.”

“There’s nothing you can do.” Jughead wants the words to come out forcefully but he sounds exactly as tired and defeated as he really feels. “You can’t fix this for me. I don’t want you to.”

Archie lets the towel fall into his lap and keeps looking at him with those warm brown eyes until Jughead meets them head-on, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth.

“Jug.” Archie’s voice sounds so impossibly tender that it tears something inside Jughead.

He forgets that he’s supposed to be aloof, self-sufficient, doing fine without Archie as his best friend. The next thing he knows, he’s sitting on the bed, half in Archie’s lap, and he can’t remember how he got there, but Archie has his arms around him as Jughead just shakes and shakes. Archie makes comforting nonsense sounds into the hair at Jughead’s temple, one broad palm curving around the side of his neck. Jughead’s cheeks are dry but his eyes feel gritty, stinging like they’re full of sand.

Archie’s lips are chapped but soft against the corner of his mouth, moving so slowly that Jughead could stop him at any moment but he doesn’t want to, doesn’t believe that it’s even really happening. Archie tips his head to the side and they’re actually kissing, lipping tentatively at each other until they settle into it properly. Jughead winds his arms around Archie’s neck, clinging desperately, and lets Archie hold his face in both hands. The slickness of Archie’s tongue pushes against his own, the nip of his own teeth against Archie’s bottom lip draws out a surprised exhalation that Jughead tucks away under his ribcage where it aches. He’s wrapped up in the nameless desire he’s felt for Archie since last year, since always, and Archie is here, wanting something from him too. When they stop kissing, Jughead rests his forehead against Archie’s and pants against his mouth, their noses bumping together because they’re still so close.

Archie swallows before he speaks. “Juggie, come on. Come home with me, we’ll… We don’t have to talk about it tonight but I don’t wanna leave you here.”

Jughead grits his teeth, his jaw flexing stubbornly. He wants to say _fuck you, Andrews_ or _no way, I paid for this room and I’m staying_ , but he just wants to feel safe tonight, wants to fall asleep to the sound of Archie’s heartbeat and the familiar smells and sounds of his bedroom, maybe with Vegas curled up on the floor next to them. He wants Archie, fiercely and selfishly. He thinks that might be allowed.

The rain has stopped by the time they’re ready to go. Archie’s wet hoodie is balled up under his arm while he stretches out the shoulders of Jughead’s spare jacket, and Jughead’s laptop is stashed away in his backpack, the only thing he’d unpacked.

They walk in silence for several blocks and then Archie takes his hand, like it’s no big deal, like it doesn’t make Jughead’s pulse pound in his ears. Their fingers curl together and slowly, Jughead’s frantic heart settles. Their footsteps are muffled across the wet grass when they finally hit Archie’s neighborhood and take familiar shortcuts in the dark.

The light on Archie’s porch is on. They’re home.


End file.
